


Fighting Boston

by AshKnight



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-01 09:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17241359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshKnight/pseuds/AshKnight
Summary: Emma faces a lifestyle change, but finds an outlet for her stress when a new woman enters her life.  Loose "Fight Club" AU.  I do not own any quotes from the film that may be present in the story.  SwanQueen.





	1. Ninety Floors Up

From ninety floors up, no one on the ground is significant. No one is a special, unique snowflake. Everyone is a dot on the screen of our eyes, moving around like an ant.

Ten minutes left.

Thinking about the stairs is a bad idea. How you could trip, fall, and kill yourself tumbling down them. How you could get shanked by some desperate homeless guy looking for drug money. How 9/11 could happen again, in this building, right now, and you'd be totally fucked.

Nine minutes left.

Thinking about the windows is a bad idea too. Smoke filling the room as you decide to jump to escape the flames. You're fucked either way.

Eight minutes left.

I'm running up the stairs. Floor ninety-one. Floor ninety-two. I'm out of breath. Why is the elevator still broken? Who cares about this fucking job anyway?  _One more time,_ the boss said.  _If you're late one more time, you're fired._ The corporate machine has swallowed me whole.

Seven minutes left.

I still can't breathe. My lungs are exploding and it's getting worse. Maybe I  _should_  jump. No sign of flames yet, though. No excuse to give up (other than the fact that I hate my job). I forgot my financial report at home.  _Shit_.

Six minutes left.

Forty floors to go. I'm not gonna make it. God, I should work out more. My legs are killing me. Literally. They're disintegrating beneath me. Why the fuck couldn't they just fix the elevator? This is ridiculous.

Five minutes left.

I'm still thinking about jumping. Fuck this job.

Four minutes left.

My boss is going to kill me. I should've called in sick. Wish I hadn't forgotten those fucking reports. I'm screwed.

Three minutes.

* * *

"You're late," my boss muses with a smirk.

I can tell he hates me. He always has.

"You're also fired," he says, looking triumphant.

He wanted this. He's been waiting for it. He knew I'd be late.  _I_ didn't even know I'd be late. The fuck is his problem?

"Yeah… Alright," I finally say, shrugging my shoulders.

I'm covered in sweat.

"You're not getting that financial report then," I tell him. "You'll have to figure that one out on your own. Good luck trying to run the department without me."

But I know I've been absolutely no help at all for the past three months. I barely even managed to get the report done. My insomnia gives me the demeanor of a drug addict, and everyone's noticed. I'm getting stared at. He shrugs his shoulders, and I stare at him, wondering at how scrawny he is and how easily he'd lose in a bar fight. Eventually, he speaks.

"Get out."

So I do. But not before looking out the window, down at all the insignificant, identical snowflakes walking around below me. Boston's been my home for too long. I hate these buildings. But I hate being down there with the masses even more. I'd prefer to remain up here and keep everyone else anonymous. I wish my coworkers could be anonymous too. But they're not. They know me. At least, they know who I am and where I live.

None of them  _know_ me. I don't even know me.

This is what I'm thinking about as I descend the staircase. When I reach the bottom, I'm out of breath again. It's 8:23 AM, and I want a cocktail. The nearest bar is four blocks away, and I don't think I can make it. Then I remember that it's 8:23 AM and no bars are open. I think of all the people I'll pass on the street and feel nauseous.

"Fuck me," I mutter, kicking the door of the building open, half-hoping it breaks, and stepping out into the street.

Seven blocks away, I'm sweating profusely, but I've found a diner that'll serve me alcohol. Even though it's 8:37 AM.

"Rum and coke," I tell the waitress, using a napkin from the table to wipe the sweat from my brow.

"Rough day already?" she asks, but she doesn't really care.

She's laughing at me inside. I can tell.

Part of me wants to be honest, but I just say, "Something like that," and show her the ID that tells her I'm twenty-five and old enough to drink.

When I look down at the newspaper in front of me, she walks away with a smirk on her lips. I want to slap it right off her face, but I'd rather be drunk, so I wait for her to return with my drink. Three drinks in, someone taps me on the shoulder from behind.

"Can I get you one of those?" the woman asks, nodding at the empty glasses on the table.

She's beautiful. Her dark hair frames her olive face and chocolate eyes in a way that makes it impossible to break her gaze. She's captivating. Why is she talking to me?

"One of what?" I ask dumbly, then look back at my table where she's gesturing and realize she's talking about my drinks. "Oh… Um… Sure."

I'm not slurring yet, but soon I will be. Still, I accept the drink and down it quickly. Nothing like a little booze to ease you through a rough day at 8:49 in the morning.

"So what's got you drinking before nine A.M.?" she asks slyly.

She's judging me. I can tell. But she bought me a drink, so I can't really be rude.

"Got fired," I tell her shortly.

"Just now?"

"Yeah. I was three minutes late."

"What the hell? Isn't it kind of ridiculous to fire you over that?"

"Not really. I've been late almost every day for a month."

"Oh… I see."

She's still smiling at me. I don't get it. It's almost creepy, but I keep talking anyway.

"Doesn't really matter," I lie. "Got plenty of jobs lined up."

"Mmm. I'm sure you do. To pay for your fancy apartment and elegant furniture from IKEA, I'm sure."

"Hey, how the hell'd you know my furniture was from IKEA?"

"You seem the type."

I don't know whether to laugh or be offended, so I laugh  _and_ feel offended, but don't tell her. She's staring at me like I've got three heads. This goes on for several long moments before she waves the waitress over and orders me another drink. I down this one even quicker than the one before it, and start to feel the colors around me blur together shortly after that. She looks just as beautiful, though, so I keep looking at her, until she gets up from her table and walks over to sit across from me at mine.

"Mind if I join you?" she asks, a little too late.

I shrug. So what if I did? This bitch is the type to do whatever she wants. She probably  _gets_ whatever she wants too. I wonder if she has a boyfriend. Wait, what? Why am I thinking about-

"So, where'd you work?" she interrupts.

"At the financial center seven blocks down."

"Did you like it?"

"Not at all."

"Then I guess it's a good thing you got fired."

She's right. Except that I have no idea how I'm going to pay my rent. I'm certainly not going to ask my parents.

"How old are you anyway?" she asks boldly.

I blink a few times and stare blankly before answering, "Twenty-one."

People always tell me I look twenty-one, but she senses the lie like some kind of detective and laughs at me.

"How old are you really?"

I wish I was twenty-one.

"Twenty-five. Why are you even asking?"

"Just curious. You look younger than you are."

"Yeah, people tell me that."

I hate people who tell me that, even though I wish I was twenty-one.

"You're very pretty."

"Sorry?"

"I said, 'You're very pretty.'"

She looks serious. I laugh. Surely, she can't be. I'm sweaty and look like a hot, sloppy mess. There's no way she's serious. She can't be. I'm disgusting.

"You are," she assures me, looking irritated by my laughter.

I shrug my shoulders and blurt out, "Not like you are."

I'm definitely drunk now. I don't say those things to other women. But there it is, on the table, between us. It's her turn to laugh, and she does, so I scowl at her drunkenly and lean back in my seat.

"I'm serious," I tell her, offended by her disbelief in my words.

I shouldn't be offended, though. I reacted the exact same way.

The conversation goes on for several minutes before she orders me another drink. I'm completely shitfaced after two more, and I get thrown out on my ass and go kicking and screaming out of the establishment. The woman follows me out. She still doesn't know my name, but she helps me up as I stumble on the sidewalk.

"You should probably get home and sleep this off."

She's right. Drinking is the only way I can sleep, anyway. My insomnia doesn't like alcohol, so it tends to bugger off when I consume enough of it. I nod my head and lean up against the side of the building, trying to catch my balance. She can tell that I'm completely inebriated.

"Let me help you get home," she says. "If you get caught drunk in public like this, a cop is gonna throw your ass in jail."

"I…"

"We'll take a cab. Where do you live?"

"Congress street."

"Nice place," she comments.

There's something she's not saying, but I'm too drunk to press for it, so I stumble into the cab she waves down for us and let her buckle my seatbelt. She's being too… nice. Too helpful. It's making me sick. Or maybe that's the alcohol.

"Which building?" the woman asks as the taxi pulls over on the street.

I know that if I try to speak, I'll laugh, so I stay silent and point. She follows me up, and it takes me several minutes to find my keys in my purse, but eventually, I get the door open and invite her inside. She's laughing at me again.

"I've got somewhere to be. But you should call me."

When she hands me her card, I drop it, and it falls to the floor, so she picks it up and steps into the room, then finds her way to my kitchen. Carefully, she pins the card to the fridge – stainless steel – with a magnet and smiles at me. Why the hell would she want  _me_ to call her? She probably just met me at the worst moment in my entire adulthood.

"What's your name?" she finally asks.

I shake my head.

"Not calling you," I tell her drunkenly. "You're too nice."

 _Again_ , she's laughing at me. I hate that, but the sound of her laugh is bright and infectious, so I end up grinning and just shake my head when she asks me again.

"No, come on. What's your name? I won't ask your number, and I won't come by. I just want to know who you are. That's all."

"Emma," I finally tell her. "Emma Swan."

"My name's Regina Mills," she informs me, knowing that I didn't have a chance to read the card. "Hopefully, I'll hear from you."


	2. I'm Not Going to Call Her

Of course I'm not going to call her. She's fucking crazy. Buying a drink before eight in the morning for some sweaty slob of a woman she doesn't even know? Totally out of her mind. But I'm definitely going out drinking later. For now… sleep.

I wake up four hours later on the couch. I thought I went to sleep in the bed, but apparently not. I can't remember. I'm starving, so I get up and walk over to the fridge and survey the numerous take-out menus I have pinned there by magnets. Each of them – the magnets, I mean – is from some city I've been to. I'm a financial analyst for a major car company. I assess car accidents in order to evaluate whether or not a recall should be made on any of the parts. You'd be surprised at the percent of times a part has to fail before being recalled. It's nearly astronomical. In any case, I travel around the country to evaluate this, but I'm never anywhere for long (except Boston).

Sometimes, I wish I could move somewhere else. To San Francisco, or Houston. Maybe even Des Moines. Anything's better than Boston.

Anyway, I'm looking at the menus, but nothing looks good. I settle on a pizza place two blocks away and call in my order so it's ready when I get there. (I always do.) I sound like I've just gotten run over by a car. The man on the phone even asks if I'm alright.

"Sure thing, pal," I tell him. "Just peachy."

I hang up and look around at all my furniture from IKEA and laugh. Then, I take the woman's business card off the fridge and put it in my wallet. Only menus go on the fridge. Why am I keeping her card, anyway? I'm not going to call her.

I immediately start drinking at the pizza place, as soon as they hand me the box with my medium pepperoni. They expected me to take the food and leave, since I called it in, so they look at me funny when I sit in the back, away from the window, so no one's watching me eat. I fucking hate that. I hate when people walk by a shop and stare in the window at the people inside. It's fucking creepy.

I'm a little drunk by the time I start walking back to my apartment. It doesn't matter, though, because I sober up quickly when I approach the building. One of the top floors is on fire, and the building is surrounded by cops. Smoke's coming out of the windows and I can see the flames. Suddenly, I'm thinking,  _Shit. I could've stayed home. I could be fucking sleeping right now. I could be on my couch. I could be dead._

And suddenly, that doesn't seem so bad. What am I living for anyway? My IKEA furniture?

I start to walk up to the building and a cop stops me.

"You can't go near there, ma'am, it's-"

"I live here," I tell him, staring up at the flames.

He pushes my shoulder and moves me backwards, and I look at him like he's got three heads.

"Don't touch me, man," I say, slurring a little.

"Ma'am, you're… If… What floor do you live on?"

"Forty-third."

"That's where the blaze is coming from. It looks like someone's gas line broke and it was leaking throughout the floor. Someone turned on their stove and the place just… went up…"

"Fuck," I breathed. "Alright."

 _Alright?_ Who says 'Alright' when their apartment just went up in flames? All my fucking IKEA furniture!  _Goddammit,_  I'm thinking.  _This is so not my day._

Instead of staying and watching the blaze, I just turn around and walk back to the pizza place. The employee at the counter looks at me quizzically, like it's weird that I'm back so soon (which it is).

When I order another beer, he asks, "Rough day, love?"

What's with people asking me that? What business of theirs is it if my day is rough? What do they care? He doesn't care. He's just making conversation. I shake my head and look around while he fills my glass. When he gives it to me, I knock it back without hesitation. I need to get my buzz going again.

Once I have it, I stare down at the table. I'm dizzy, but I'm not tired like I usually am. I'm anxious. On the other hand, I'm sort of feeling 'Fuck it' right now. Who needs IKEA furniture anyway? Shit's expensive, but it's cheaply made. Why does anyone buy it anyway? I think about Regina Mills and the way she swings her hips. Her furniture is probably custom made, judging by the way she dresses. So why'd she make the IKEA crack? Where did she say she worked, anyway? She didn't. I pull out her business card.

Instantly, I'm laughing. She works as a financial analyst for another big company. My job, but higher pay. Much higher pay. I sigh and stare down at it. I don't want to talk. I just want to drink. But continuing to drink alone sounds shitty.

But I'm not going to call her. I won't.

So I do. She picks up on the second ring.

"Regina Mills speaking."

She sounds so formal. Almost regal. I'm tipsy, so I want to laugh, but I manage to stop myself before replying.

"Hey, Regina. It's Emma."

"Hey, Emma. You sound a little…"

"Yeah, I know. I'm a bit buzzed."

"Fair enough. So what's up?"

I laugh.

"Feel like having a drink? Now that it's almost four in the afternoon?"

"Five is generally my rule, but I suppose I could make an exception." I can hear the smile in her voice as she asks, "Where are you?"

"I'm at the pizza place near Faneuil Hall."

"Uh…"

"What?"

"You mean Regina Pizzeria?"

I burst out laughing. The place really is called Regina Pizzeria. I hadn't thought much of it, coming here, but now that I'm on the phone with Regina… it's beyond funny. It's funny as hell. At first, she's silent, but I guess my laugh is infectious too, because eventually, she joins in.

"What a fucking slop joint," she comments sharply, then pauses. "I'll be there in fifteen."

I manage to get another beer down before she arrives. She walks in looking like she's dressed for a meeting, and I wonder why.

"You changed your clothes," I comment, noting the lack of wrinkles on her deep blue dress shirt and the fresh smell of laundry.

"What's it to you?"

"Why'd you dress so nicely?"

"You're still dressed nicely."

I look down at myself. She's right. I'm still in my work clothes. But I look like shit. No sweat stains, but my clothes are definitely not clean anymore. I should've changed before I went out. Now I'm seriously regretting it. Then again, who dresses up just to go to some 'slop joint' pizza place? Regina Mills, apparently. I catch myself staring. The first three buttons of her blouse are undone, and I'm wondering if she did this on purpose. What's  _with_ this crazy lady? And why the  _fuck_ did I call her?

Then I remember. She's gorgeous.

Finally, I also remember to answer her, and I reply, "I should've changed."

She ignores the comment and says, "Can I get you another drink?"

"Yeah. Thanks. Just another beer is fine. Not feeling the hard liquor at the moment. Trying to keep the buzz going without going overboard, ya know?"

"Yeah," she laughs. "I know."

She stands up and walks over to the counter where she orders me another beer. I watch her hips sway as she walks away, and luckily, she doesn't turn around and see me staring. Unfortunately, I'm still staring as she walks back over to me, and that she does notice.

"See something you like?" she teases me, and my lips part.

I can't speak. She's captivating. Thankfully, she smiles and sits down across from me without pressing the issue. I'm sure she already knows the answer to what she's asked.

"So, a building down the street is totally up in flames… That wouldn't happen to be your apartment, would it?" she finally asks me, after I've silently taken a few thick sips of my beer.

"Yeeep," I laugh. I don't know why it's funny, but I add, "Bye-bye IKEA furniture."

Suddenly, she looks serious and says, "We're consumers. We're the by-products of a lifestyle obsession. We buy things we don't need to impress people we don't like." Then, after some silence – I have no idea what to say to this, because she's right – she adds, "Anyway, what's the game plan then?"

I look down at the table. I have none. No plan whatsoever. Except eating pizza and drinking for the rest of the evening. No plan for after the restaurant closes.

"Park bench?" I joke.

She looks at me seriously.

"For real, though. What's your plan? Are they putting you up in a hotel?"

"Nah. For now, there's no proof that it's the building managers' fault. They think there was a gas leak, but until they can prove it, there's no way to pin responsibility on them. For all they know, someone could have set the fire intentionally."

She sighs and nods her head in understanding, saying, "That sucks."

I lift my gaze and find hers. It's soft and sympathetic. She's genuine, and that freaks me out. Nobody's this honest, and nobody's this nice. It's creepy. I hesitate before speaking, unsure of what to say.

"Why don't you just ask?" she presses suddenly, breaking the awkward silence.

"Huh?"

"Just ask."

"Ask what?"

"Be a man, Emma, and just fucking ask."

Then, it hits me. I realize what's she's talking about. She wants me to ask her if I can crash at her place. There's no way that's happening. I'm not gonna beg a couch off some woman I just met. But she's looking at me with those big, serious chocolate eyes, and it's killing me to defy her. Plus, I  _do_ need a place to stay. It hadn't occurred to me to ask  _her_ , but now that she's telling me to ask, I'm considering it. What other choice do I have?

"Would you… um… Do you think I could maybe… uh…"

"Just ask."

Finally, I blurt it out.

"Is there any chance I could crash at your place? Just for a night, until I figure stuff out?"

"Well, it's definitely too late to book a hotel around here. I don't think you've got any other choice," she tells me, a smirk slowly passing over her lips.

"So… Is that…"

"Of course you can."

"Wow… Jeez… Thanks."

"Not used to the kindness of others, are you?"

"No… I, uh… I guess not."

"Well, I guess we'll just have to fix that, won't we?"

I shrug my shoulders apprehensively and take a swig of my drink. She's too nice. I can't stop thinking that. She's  _too_ nice.

She buys me two more drinks before my tongue loosens any more.

"Trying to get me plastered, eh, Miss Mills?" I tease her.

She's amused by this. A smile's playing at her lips, and it's gorgeous. There's something so sexy about the way she smiles. She knows something I don't. A woman full of secrets.

"Perhaps," she responds slowly, pushing the only glass she's ordered for herself across the table towards me.

"What about you?" I slur. "Don't you drink?"

I stare down at the glass, tempted but unwilling to reach out for it without confirmation.

"I do," she tells me. "But not tonight. Don't waste it."

So I don't. Instead, I drink it in its entirety. Then, I am plastered. Completely. Once again, she's seeing me in my worst possible condition, but she doesn't seem put off by it. For some reason, she's still hanging around, watching me intently as I run my mouth about my shitty job. Well, former job.

After this, she stops offering me drinks, but it's too late to regret her decision to buy me so many. I'm already beyond using rational judgement. In fact, I piss off one of the waiters so badly that I'm thrown out of this establishment too. I fall on my ass outside, but Regina lifts me up off the sidewalk and dusts me off.

"You're okay, champ," she laughs. "Let's get you back to my place before you're busted for public intoxication."


	3. Itching For a Fight

_Oh, God,_ I'm thinking.  _I'm so drunk._ I'm making a fool of myself, and I know it. Regina knows it too, but she's laughing about it. I can't tell if I'm her amusement for the evening or if she actually finds me funny. I'm making crappy jokes as I lean on her and stumble down the sidewalk. Suddenly, she's pulling me into an ally and pushing me against the brick wall of the building.

My first reaction is to stare at her in disbelief. My second is to reach out and shove her away. She looks startled, her beautiful brown eyes wide open as she stares at me.

"Easy, tiger," she says, forcing a smile. "There was a cop."

My eyes widen too.  _Oops,_ I'm thinking. What the hell did I think she was doing, anyway? It's not like she was about to shank me.

"Sorry," I mutter.

I'm embarrassed, and it's obvious, so she puts her hand on my shoulder and tells me, "It's fine. I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't!" I lie. "Gut reaction."

She's unconvinced, but still smiling, and says, "Gut reaction, huh? You some kind of a tough guy or something?"

"Nah," I laugh drunkenly. "I've never even been in a fight."

She looks surprised.

"Not even a little one?"

"Not even a little one. Never even been punched."

"How much can you know about yourself if you've never been in a fight?"

I'm drunk, but I'm sober enough to realize she's got a point, and I'm suddenly embarrassed about my lack of experience. She sees this and smiles at me again. She won't fucking stop doing that, and it's creeping me out.

"Hit me," she says suddenly, her white teeth glistening in the street lights.

"What?" I gawk. "Are you crazy?"

"Maybe," she says with a shrug. "Only one way to find out."

"You gonna hit me back?"

She winks and says, "Only if you want me to, Princess."

Is she flirting with me? What the fuck.

My hand twitches into a fist.

"Do it," Regina taunts.

I'm tempted, but only because I'm drunk and she's egging me on.

"C'mon. Hit me. Let's find out what you're made of."

I hesitate. Is she serious?

"I'm serious."

Is she reading my mind?

"Hit me!"

I growl, irritated by her unending persistence, and cock my arm back, then bring it forward, smashing my fist into the left side of her jaw. Her gums instantly began to bleed, and when she smiles again, it's full of blood. Why is she smiling? I stare at her.

"What the fuck are you smiling at?"

"Do it again."

My eyes grow wide.

" _Why?_ "

"Because it makes me feel alive."

In any other circumstance, this would be kinky, but I know what she's talking about. There's a rush. I want to know what it's like to be hit. My goal is to piss her off enough to hit back, so I punch her again, this time right in the nose. It doesn't bleed at first, but she starts laughing, so I hit her again.

Still cackling, she shoves me back against the wall, pins me there, and stares into my eyes with her fist cocked back, ready to strike. I nod my head and she comes at me. Not with rage, but with excitement. As pain explodes from my cheek all the way to the rest of my face, I feel the euphoria. I'm alive. Just like she said.

I bring my knee up into her gut, and she coughs, spitting blood all over my tank top. I'm just as crazy as her as I start laughing too. She hits me again, then I swing again and miss. I try again and hit. This goes on until we're both on our knees, panting.

"Shit," I gasp. "That's…"

"We should do this more often," she says.

I can't tell if she's joking, but when I look up into her face, she seems serious.

"Maybe," I agree.

She manages to stand up on shaky legs and drags me to my feet. We lean on each other as we stumble back to her apartment. Once we're there and the door is locked, she gently pushes me into the bathroom until I'm sitting on the edge of the tub. Before I know it, she's dabbing my face with a washcloth.

"Hey," I slur. "I can-"

"Shh," she laughs, reaching up and wiping the blood from her nose on the back of her hand. "I got it."

I'm clean a few moments later, but still bleeding in some places, so she bandages me up, then cleans up herself with far less care. I take it she enjoys the sting of the wounds. I do too. I pass out on her couch twenty minutes later after she makes me down two full glasses of water. I almost throw it up, but I manage to keep it down.

She wakes me in the morning and tells me she has to go to work, but that I can stay here. She tells me to leave the door unlocked when I go so I can get back in.

"What?"

"You're gonna stay here until you find a place," she announces. I open my mouth to speak, but she says, "No. You're staying. It's fine."

I sigh and lean back on the couch, raising my hand and pressing it to my forehead. My head's exploding. I can't tell if it's the hangover or all the bruises. I don't really care. I'm alive. She smiles at me, hands me an ice pack, and leaves. She's covered in bruises too, and I wonder how that's gonna go over at her job. They're probably going to think her boyfriend is beating her.

I spend the rest of the day on the couch.

Regina gets home later that evening and walks in the door carrying a takeout bag.

"Chinese food," she explains.

"Oh, jeez. You didn't have to-"

"Hush. You're probably starving."

"Um… Yeah. Okay."

For someone who hits as hard as she does, she's exceptionally sweet.

She sits next to me on the couch and flashes me the brightest smile I've ever seen. She's enchanting, and my stomach turns.

"You look like shit."

She's grinning as she opens the bag and takes out the container of food.

"Thanks," I joke.

It's kind of funny. I know there's dried blood on my face somewhere, but at least I'm not still bleeding. I haven't looked in the mirror all day, not even when I was in the bathroom taking a piss.

She looks at me again and continues to smile, then tucks some of my hair behind my ear, saying, "I like it. Makes you look… sort of badass."

"Is my eye black?" I want to know.

She nods. At least I don't have to show up at work looking like I got run over by a lawn mower.

"It's okay. You wear it well."

I look down at the plate of food she fixed for me and sigh. She's too nice.

"Eat, honey," she urges me. "You're too skinny."

"You like 'em muscular, huh?" I tease, suddenly feeling sort of shitty about my own figure.

I used to think thinner was better. Men want toothpicks, right? But she's not a man. She's a goddess.

"What are you thinking?" Regina asks me, suddenly looking concerned.

I must be furrowing my brow or something, because she's clearly picked up on my quickly deteriorating mood.

"I don't know. I wish I was as strong as you. I'm kind of pathetic."

"You're stronger than you look, that's for sure. You definitely made me bleed."

This earns an involuntary smile from me and boosts my confidence, even though she's probably just feeding me bullshit. At the very least, she's feeding my ego.

"You're pretty buff yourself, for someone so petite."

"Yeah, well… I work out."

"I'm sure you do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Your fist introducing itself to my face pretty much gave that away."

She laughs, bright and loud, and I smile.

"Fair enough."

When we finish eating, she looked over at me and starts to stare. At first, I don't notice, but then I look over at her, and our eyes meet. God, she's beautiful. Even with the bruises.  _Especially_ with the bruises.

"What?" I ask dumbly, wanting to know why she's staring.

It's creeping me out.

"You need a shower."

I blink a few times. I probably reek. Gross.

"Yeah," I agree. "Can I-"

"Of course you can. Go ahead. Towels are right next to the shower."

Once the hot water is pouring over my body, my muscles start to relax, and the ache all over my body eases. It feels good. Too good. I'm picturing the fight in my head, picturing her coming at me with fire in her eyes. With passion. I'm picturing the way she shut her eyes slowly and flashed me a bloody smile when I hit her the third time. To my shock and horror, I'm getting turned on, and when I reach between my legs, I can feel my own arousal on my fingers.

I'm leaning against the wall now, involuntarily rubbing my clit. I can't stop. I hear her laugh ringing in my ears. I feel the pain of her fist against my jaw and my muscles clench again, even under the heat of the water pouring over me. I try to stop. I really do. But it's too good. The whole thing is pure euphoria, and then I'm coming hard, and I gasp as it happens, surprised.

I don't do this. I don't masturbate. Except… Here I am. Masturbating in Regina's shower. Fuck.

Once I'm completely clean – this takes a while, since I'm disgusting and caked with sweat and blood – I get out of the shower and look at myself in the mirror. I hate my body, but I love the way the wounds and bruises look. I'm smiling at myself, and it makes me feel weird. What kind of creeper smiles at themselves in the mirror, right after masturbating in someone else's shower? God, I'm fucked up.

I dry off quickly, savoring the ache every time I touch a bruise. The rush is starting to fade, though. The ache was dulled by the heat, and now I'm starting to crave more.

When I reappear in the living room, Regina looks up and smiles at me. I smile back, unable to play it cool. Her smile's infectious, and it radiates through me like the hot water in the shower.

"You look good like that," she tells me.

"Like what?"

"Soaked and dripping."

I stare blankly and wonder what the fuck she's talking about. Then, I remember I just showered. She's not talking about… Wow, I'm stupid.

"Oh. So… Anyway. You got plans tonight?"

"I was gonna head down to the gym. You wanna come?"

"I'm not really the type to, uh… work out…"

"Alright. Then let's go get a drink."

I'm surprised. She's probably the only person I've ever known who hadn't judged me for the obvious drinking problem. Then again, right about now, I think it's pretty justified.

I try to respond, but my head becomes foggy when I notice the straining buttons on her blouse. It's just slightly too tight. Well, no… It's just tight enough. Tight enough to turn me on again.  _Shit._

"You alright?" she asks.

I'm blushing.

"Yeah. Good. Let's go, if you're ready."

"I'm ready."

After a few beers, she eases me off the stool at the bar and helps me outside.

"Take a minute," she tells me, gently pushing me against the brick wall behind the building.

"I'm fine," I slur, grinning as I shove her back playfully.

Apparently, drinking makes me less nervous, and more of an idiot. I guess that makes sense.

"Oh, you wanna play?" she teases.

My heart races as I watch the fire light in her eyes. I know what she means, but I can't tell if she's really baiting me because she wants to or if she's baiting me because it's funny.

It's not funny, though, because I'm dying to feel her fists pulverizing me. I'm dying to try to lay her out. To prove to myself – and to her – that I'm not as weak as I look. Then, I remember how badly she was bleeding the other night. Guess I don't have such a bad swing after all. Still, I feel weak compared to her, and I want to put on a better show than last time. I'm craving that rush again.

"What's the matter, princess?" Regina coos. "Itching for a fight?"

"Maybe."

"Show me what you got."

I'm a little less drunk than last time, so I'm not gonna fall over quite as much. I've got a much better chance this time. Not that either of us really 'lost' last time. It was sort of a mutual ass-kicking. And it was great. Still, I'm tired of being mediocre. I'm tired of being second-rate. I want to win.

I don't wait for her to reassure me that she's ready. I'm way too jazzed to stop myself from stumbling forward and swinging hard, my fist connecting with her cheek and making her head snap to the side. She laughs instantly and looks back to me. God, she's as fucking crazy as I am.

"You're fucked, you know," I joke, grinning at her.

"In the fight, or in general?"

"Both."

Before she can hit me again, I surprise her with a left hook, and she stumbles backwards. I'm feeling the rush of victory. At least until she charges me and slams me into the wall, grabbing me by the throat and slamming my head back.

"Fuck!" I shout.

That one might have been a little much. This crazy bitch is going to give me a concussion. Regardless, I'm loving it, so I bring my knee up against her thigh as hard as I can, and she stumbles again. I'm proud of the move, but dizzy from her last hit, so I stop for half a moment to gather myself and catch my breath, but she's merciless, so she socks me right in the jaw with her right hand, then jabs me in the nose with her left. Instantly, blood's pouring down my face.

When I look up, my eyes are unfocused, so I don't find her face in my vision. Instead, I see a guy and a girl staring at us, slack-jawed.


	4. Rules

They're gawking, and I hate that. I push Regina out of the way and start to advance on them, totally ready to pull them into the fight, pissed that they're staring.

"Whoa," Regina cautions me, grabbing the back of my shirt and holding me back. I nearly fall over into her, but she steadies me. "Relax. We're leaving."

She's sober, so she's obviously worried these two are gonna call the cops. Me? I'm ready to lay 'em out. She knows better, so she holds me against her chest from behind.

"We're leaving," she repeats, this time talking to the bystanders.

"Whoa, hold up," the girl says.

She's got dark hair and green eyes. Gorgeous, but not like Regina. There's fire in her eyes, though.

"Are you guys, like… fighting… for  _fun?_ "

We look at each other and shrug.

"Yeah," Regina tells them. "What of it?"

"Bet neither of you could take me."

I thought Regina and I were evenly matched before. I quickly realize, as she advances on the girl, that she's been taking it easy on me.

"I'm Ruby," the girl says with a grin, but Regina ignores her and slams her fist into the girl's jaw.

For a second, I think her head's never gonna turn back around again as I hear the sound of a crack and it whips to the side.

"Shit!" the girl laughs, looking back at Regina and punching her in the gut.

Regina stumbles back but recovers quickly and answers blow-for-blow a few more times. This girl is brutal, but Regina's relentless, and no matter how many times she stumbles, no matter how badly she's bleeding, she just keeps coming at the girl full-force. I can't tell if I'm surprised, pissed that she's been holding back with me, or totally turned on. I'm starting to understand why men love watching women fight each other.

Finally, the fight ends with Regina slamming Ruby's head back against the brick wall. The girl is laughing, but she's also quickly shrinking to the ground and slumping over. The guy quickly jumps in, trying to help her up, but she slaps his hand away.

"I'm fine," she tells him.

My eyes are wide. I can't tell what surprises me more: Regina's endless brutality or the girl's relentless enthusiasm.

"Good game," Ruby says, as she accepts Regina's hand and is lifted off the ground.

"You alright?" Regina finally asks.

Now, there's the silky-smooth tone again. The sound of her voice gives me shivers. Before Ruby can even reply, I'm behind Regina with my hand on her shoulder, asking her the same thing.

She just laughs and brushes my hand away as Ruby nods.

"You next, pretty boy?" Regina asks the young man.

He just laughs and says, "I wouldn't hit a girl."

"Pussy."

My eyes widen again. She's really gonna fight this guy?

He laughs again and shakes his head, telling her, "No way."

"Rain check then, just in case your balls ever drop."

When she hands him her business hard, he scowls at her and quickly snatches it away.

"Yeah," he grumbles. "Maybe."

"I'm in," Ruby jumps in. "Any time." Then, she looks right at me and says, "What about you? You want a turn in the ring or what?"

"I only fight the winner," I lie.

I'm way too nervous to fight her just yet. I'm gonna need Regina to teach me a few moves first. Now, I'm fucking embarrassed. She's been taking it easy on me, which means that I really am as pathetic as I originally thought. I'm out of me league. But  _God_ does it feel good when we exchange blows. There's something electric about it.

I'm torn from my thoughts when Regina grabs my arm and leads me away.

As I fall in step with her, I turn my head back and call out, "Call. Next time, I'm in."

Ruby says something, but we're too far away to understand her. I hope it's something pathetic and cocky so I can wipe the smirk off her face next time.

As soon as we get back to Regina's apartment, I blurt out, "You gotta teach me that shit. I can't believe you've been taking it easy on me! I need you to show me how to take that bitch down."

"I don't think so," she laughs. Then, after a pause, she adds, "Let's get you cleaned up."

I scowl, insulted. What a bitch. She'll fake me out, then laugh at my lack of ability and refuse to help me improve? What the fuck is that about? How can she be so sweet and so bitchy at the same time? But I don't have time to be angry, because she's pulling me into the bathroom, just like before, and pushing me down until I'm sitting on the closed toilet seat.

"Listen, I'm-" I start to protest.

"Shh. Let me."

"Regina! I'm fine. I-"

Her gaze softens as she looks into my eyes, and I'm instantly melting like warm chocolate. Damn, she's beautiful. So I let her clean my face. But soon, she's dabbing the wounds on my shoulders and the bruise on my collarbone. Then, she sees the blood pooling on my white tank top, right over my abs. When she starts to lift the tank top, my muscles clench. I'm almost glad for it, because they look a hell of a lot better clenched and flexed than they do relaxed.

"What?" she asks, when she notices the discomfort in my face.

"I…"

But she just smiles at me when I can't continue and keeps lifting the piece of clothing above my head. She tosses it to the side and looks me over from my head to the waistband of my jeans. I watch her eyes linger on my breasts as her gaze slides back up.

I bite my lip, and as soon as she notices, her hands fall to my sides, and she rests them on my waist.

"That, um… That was pretty fun tonight," I force myself to say, breaking the painful silence.

"Yeah. It was. Quite a rush, huh?"

I nod and shiver when she lifts hers palms away slightly and leaves her fingertips on my skin.

"Maybe we should start a club," Regina laughs.

I laugh, too, at the ridiculousness of the statement. Let's start a club where we can beat up each other and other people. Yeah. That's gonna work. Who's gonna be crazy enough to join that? And it's not like we can advertise. Then, I remember Ruby and the guy she was with. Maybe they'd be in. And if there were four of us crazy enough to consider it, maybe a club wouldn't be such a bad idea anyway.

She sees me contemplate and process the idea and smiles at me.

"You in?"

I pause and hesitate, taking one last second to consider before I commit, then nod.

* * *

"Rules, people. Listen up," Regina announces, in the basement of some random, seedy bar, one the fist official night of Fight Club. "The first rule of Fight Club is: You do not talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is: You  _do not_  talk about Fight Club. Third rule of Fight Club: Someone yells stop, goes limp, taps out, the fight is over. Fourth rule: Only two people to a fight. Fifth rule: One fight at a time. Sixth rule: no shoes. Seventh rule: Fights will go on as long as they have to. And the eighth and final rule: If this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight."

The music pours into my ears, the bass rattling and the gain turned up too high. At first, it hurts, and I hate it. Some obnoxious screamo  _bullshit._ But when it's my turn, and my first opponent's fist connects with my jaw, that same rattling echoes in my chest cavity as my blood throbs hard in my veins, and it kind of feels good. The adrenaline coursing through me has me shaking. One glance to the side tells me Regina's watching intently, her eyes locked on the fight. I can't look long enough to see her eyes sparkling, because I have to jerk my head back around to swing another punch.

It doesn't connect. I'm too distracted to land it, so my opponent gets another two shots in, one to the other side of my jaw and one to my gut, which sends me reeling backwards. I'm so uncoordinated, and I'm embarrassed now. Fighting with Regina, alone, is different than having a small crowd in the basement of a pub staring at me making an ass of myself. But I'm quickly pulled away from my insecurities as I scramble to my feet and kick hard, nearly breaking the girl's knee. Even though she shouts in pain and stumbles back, though, she's on me again in an instant, this time tackling me onto the cement floor.

We've wasted no time by baby-proofing the basement here. Hard, uncovered floor, uncushioned support beams, and random tables surround us. Plenty of room to knock your head into something and probably never wake up again. Luckily for me, I sense myself falling fast enough to put my hands out. Unfortunately, the first hand that catches me makes a loud cracking noise, and I scream. Then, I collapse, and before the girl can jump me, I'm slapping the floor with my other hand. My eyes fall shut just as my opponent stops moving toward me, and my head hits the floor.

Regina is beside me in an instant, gripping my arm and saying… well… something. I can't hear her. The music in my ears is muffled by the ringing caused by the rush of pain from the broken bones in my wrist. I'm able to open my eyes and see her mouth moving, but I'm too distracted to read her lips. I'm trying though, and when she realizes this, she nods her head in understanding and simply pulls me to my feet.

"Let's go," she shouts over the music, and I can finally understand her. "We gotta get you—"

I shake my head, starting to pull away. Let it be broken. Fuck it. But she's insistent on taking me to the hospital, so we leave the pub before the next fight takes place. I want to see the next round, but she won't let me stay. I look like a wimp, getting hauled out of there like a pussy-whipped bitch, but there's no talking to her about it. We're at the car already, and she's pushing me into the passenger's seat.

"I'm f—" I try.

"A bruise is one thing. A broken wrist is quite another."

"I don't want a cast!" I shout.

Then, I realize how stupid I sound. I don't want to fix my broken wrist because I don't want to wear a cast? Jesus fuck.

"Well, you need one, so shut up."

"But then I won't be able to—"

"We'll get you back in the ring in a few weeks." Then, she laughs and says, "And then you'll probably break it again."

Her laughter is cruel and sort of brutal, but some sick, twisted part of me loves it. I love being brutalized by her, verbally and physically. I don't care which, and I'm realizing that now, as we pull out of the parking lot and onto the main road, headed toward the hospital.

In the waiting room, she stares at my wrist, which I'm intentionally trying to ignore. She keeps staring, though, so I follow her gaze with mine, and it lands where the bones are undoubtedly cracked. When I look back up to meet her eyes, she looks almost apologetic.

"Miss Swan?" the doctor calls out, and I turn my head toward the sound and nod my head as I rise to my feet.

Regina follows me through the terrifying metal doors that so many people never exit through. God, the hospital is fucking creepy. I hate it. But I'm sitting down soon enough, mostly ignoring the doctor as he pokes and prods at my wrist, at least until he touches the broken place, making me jump in my seat.

"Fuck!" I shout.

He has my attention now.

"I'm going to take that as a yes," he said drly.

I assume he's just asked if it hurts. I roll my eyes. To my surprise, Regina lifts her hand from the spot where it's been gripping the side of the table we're sitting on and places it gently on my lower back. Instantly, my muscles – most of them, anyway – relax.

"Now, this is going to hurt a little," the doctor starts. "I'm just going to—"

I tune him out and shut my eyes as he sets the bones in place. I don't scream. I just bite my lip hard to swallow the sound as Regina presses her hand a little harder against my back to let me know she's there. There's something so soothing about this that I detach almost enough to fall asleep. What the fuck, right? I come out of my trance a while later as the doctor asks me what color I want for the cast. This is an easy answer.

"Red," I say, looking at him blankly.

Regina laughs, knowing why. My new favorite thing to see? Blood. Everywhere.

It symbolizes life. It symbolizes passion. It symbolizes  _me._

I detach again as he wraps me up. Regina says "thanks" for me as we walk out of the room. She looks over at me while I stare forward with tunnel vision.

"What's wrong?" she asks, concerned, as we step back through the big metal doors into the waiting room.

"I want to fight."

"Come on, Emma. It'll only be for—"

"Four weeks!  _Four_ weeks!" I cry, throwing open the front door and stomping out of the building.

Following close behind me, Regina says sharply, "Six weeks, Emma. He said six weeks. Weren't you listening?"

"No," I scoff. "I wasn't."

She rolls her eyes and walks gracefully behind me as my angry footsteps pound the asphalt.


	5. Destroying Something Beautiful

I know I can't fight, but the following week, I go to the club anyway. If anything, I can at least watch Regina in the ring. I think she's realized that I get off on this, because she flashes me a painfully seductive smirk as she steps forward toward her opponent, then flips her hair as she turns to face them.

The bell chimes, and of course, she gets the first hit. Almost everyone cheers when blood instantly pours from the man's nose, and I hear a few people nearby shout, "Whoa!" and "Holy shit!" I'm not surprised, though. I knew this would happen. Even without landing the first hit, there was no way she'd lose. This woman is  _savage._

The man looks enraged as he taunts her, "You sure you want me to hit you, princess?"

I roll my eyes and laugh, and Regina does too. She says nothing, instead choosing to speak with her fists. One to his right eye, one hooking under to connect with his jaw. His neck makes a cracking noise as his head whips around, and more cheering erupts from the small crowd surrounding them. I know she'll win, so the details don't really matter, and as much as I want to watch this, I inadvertently stop paying attention as my mind wanders. I imagine myself in the ring. I imagine her drawing blood from my nose and making me stumble backwards with the force of her blows. I hate that she's been going easy on me, but I'm starting to realize that she could probably kill me if she wanted to, and that would end the fun for both of us.

By the time I snap back into the match, Regina is standing over the challenger, her expression steel and stoic. She's not bragging or basking in the glory of her conquest. She doesn't have to.

* * *

The next week, the two of us sit out the first few fights together. We don't cheer anyone on. It doesn't matter who wins or who loses. It's the bloodshed that counts. The only time she smiles is when someone bleeds.

After the third fight, I turn away from Regina and start to step forward as the two competitors leave the open space in the middle of the floor. Seeing this, she gently grabs my arm and asks, "You going for a drink?"

I shake my head, shrug her off, and keep moving forward, until I'm in the middle of the empty ring. A look of protest and surprise flashes over Regina's features, but I ignore her, probably for the first time ever. I need this.

I hear laughing in the crowd. They're all staring at my cast and think I'm a joke. I am, really. Who am I kidding? I'm not gonna win. But I'm not here for that. I'm here to leave bruised and bloodied.

The guy who steps up to the plate is short and muscular, his biceps nearly exploding out of his skin. A wave of adrenaline shoots through me as I wonder how hard he'll hit me, and where the blows will connect. I don't hear the bell, and he comes at me instantly, answering my unspoken question. I stumble back, body shocked and caught off guard by the two blows to my stomach. I only hold my guts for a moment before charging him. I bluff like I'm going to hit him in the face with my good hand, but when he reaches up to block, my leg shoots out and kicks his thigh. It's not hard enough, though, and even though I can tell it hurts, he laughs.

This makes me furious. When Regina laughs, it urges me on and makes me laugh too. It's a high I can't get anywhere else. But  _this_  guy laughing… It's insulting. What did I expect, anyway? A little respect? Hardly.

Fuck, he's fast. Before I can hit him again or even dodge, he lands a blow to my temple. I'm laughing again. It makes my head spin, in a euphoric, electrifying way. I savor it, then make my next move, kicking him hard in the groin. There are no fight rules to forbid that here. He curses, so I grin, and he clocks me in the mouth. The smile I'm still wearing is bloody now.

"Are you ever gonna give up, ya wench?" the man laughs, kicking my thigh hard enough to knock me backwards.

Of course, I shake my head, dodging his next blow. He's pissed when this happens and tries again, but I dodge that move too and start kicking him as hard as I can, using my good hand to punch him wherever I can manage to make contact. Amazingly, my final blow is to his left eye. He covers his face, feeling the pain surge through his whole head, then waves his hands, signaling his surrender.

I can't believe it, and neither can Regina.

For such a wuss, I didn't do too bad holding my own against a man. My last few dodges were probably the only thing that saved me. Had I taken any more blows, I would've been on the ground. Apparently, he's fast, but tonight, I'm faster. This is a little abnormal for me. I'm usually quite clumsy, but I guess I got lucky. And I walked away with enough bruises to be satisfied, so it's a double win for me.

Make that a triple win.

As I walk back over to Regina, her eyes are on fire. I know that look. It's on my face every time I fight her or watch her fight someone else. Pure, unadulterated passion and desire. I've left her stunned, and that's my biggest victory of the night.

"Fuck," she says, staring as I stand beside her, watching the next two fighters enter the playing field.

She says nothing else, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Except, maybe if she said, "Fuck me now." That I could be game for.

Suddenly, though, I doubt the look on her face. She's surprised because I'm currently a cripple. A damn lucky cripple. Not because I'm talented, and not because she's actually impressed. She's just surprised. I sigh and watch the next match, trying not to look over at her and slowly forgetting my triumph. I'm mostly satisfied to sit with the aching that's spread through most of my body. Fuck I need a nap. But the high of the fight keeps me awake through the next three matches, too, until we disperse, and Regina follows me outside to the car.

We sit there for several minutes as I stare out the passenger window before I realize that she's actually looking at me.

"What?" I ask, when I finally notice.

"Where'd you go, psycho girl?"

"I felt like destroying something beautiful," I explain with a shrug.

"That was incredible."

"Huh?"

"What you did in there. You definitely won one for the underdogs."

"Nah," I retort. "I won it for you."

What the fuck did I just say? My face floods with color as blood drips down from my temple, past my ear, and onto my jaw. I can't take it back now, so I just laugh to cover up my unintentional confession.

"Yeah, right," Regina chuckles, finally turning the key in the ignition.

Thankfully, the conversation ends there.

* * *

Regina goes into the kitchen as soon as we get back to her apartment to fix us each a drink, and I sit down on the lounge.

"You must be—" she starts, upon entering the living room to find me passed out on the couch "—exhausted."

I wake up in her bed the next morning, in the clothes I was wearing last night, with dried blood all over my face and hands.

"Regina?" I call out, sitting up to find her nowhere in sight.

"Hmm?" she hums, appearing in the doorway with a sly smile.

"What… What am I doing in your bed?"

"I figured you needed a full night's sleep. Here," she answers, stepping forward and handing me a plate with a fork. "Have some eggs."

I raise my eyebrows but don't argue. I'm too hungry to protest, and the eggs are gone  _wayyy_  quicker than I'd like to admit.

"Thanks," I mumble, staring down at the empty plate.

Regina just laughs, takes the plate from me, and walks away.

When I try to follow her, I find that my legs have turned into painful, wobbly Jell-O. I manage to stand, but the delicious ache slows me down as I move down the hallway towards the living room. I find her sitting on the couch drinking what I assume is tea.

"Sit," she says, patting the spot next to her.

I obey – slowly – and sit down beside her, watching as she carefully sips the steaming beverage. Then, she hands me a water bottle and tells me to drink, so I do. The liquid feels good spreading its cold sensation down my throat and into my stomach.

With my mouth no longer dry, I ask, "Where'd you sleep?"

"On the couch, obviously," she quips.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was a nice change, actually."

"God, you're weird," I laugh, nudging her shoulder.

This hurts, so I wince.

She immediately picks up on my pain and asks, "You okay?" When I nod, she smiles and runs her fingers through my hair, saying, "Good." When she looks as me and sees my fatigue, she adds, "Last night was crazy."

"Yeah. I didn't see that coming. I was expecting to have my ass handed to me in a take-out box."

She laughs and wraps an arm around my shoulders.

"Emma," she says softly, looking into my eyes. "You really are something else, you know that?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're either ridiculously brave, or ridiculously stupid and impulsive."

"Well, I do have a knack for getting myself into trouble," I say with a cheeky grin.

She rolls her eyes and replies, "You certainly dodged a bullet last night."

"Nah. Just a fist."

"Damn, you're a dork," she teases, and I smile back at her, feeling happier than I've felt in a long time.

The ache that's spread to just about everywhere in my body feels so good, so liberating, that I feel astonishingly alive. And her eyes… her eyes make me feel like I'm on fire.

"Emma?" she asks, when she sees me in a trance.

I nod slowly and look away, mumbling, "Sorry. Zoned out for a second there."

"What's going through your mind?"

 _How beautiful you are,_ I'm thinking. But I can't say that, so I don't.

Instead, I lie, "I dunno. Nothing, I guess."

She rolls her eyes again and counters, "You play 'em real close to the chest, don't you, Swan?"

I shrug.

"Alright then. Have it your way."

"Hey…" I say suddenly, after a long pause. "Regina."

"Yeah?"

"Do you think I'm crazy?"

She stares at me, dumbfounded by the question.  _Yep,_ I'm thinking.  _She definitely does._

But her reply is a relief, even though I think it might be a lie, as she responds, "You're just the right amount of crazy, Emma, and I wouldn't have you any other way."

"Really?"

"Really."

She cups my face in her hands and looks into my eyes, and I suddenly know what it feels like to be completely at peace.

* * *

"Em," Regina whispers, carefully shaking me awake.

But as careful as she is, I react as though I'm being mauled by a bear and swing a hard left hook as my eyes snap open, connecting with her jaw.

"Oh, FUCK!" I scream, immediately sitting up and cupping her face. "I am so,  _so_ sorry."

Obviously, I hadn't meant to hurt her. But she's laughing. She's actually laughing.

"What?" I ask sharply. "It's not funny! I didn't mean to hit you. I guess I just got spooked awake."

"I was gentle," she chuckles, resting one of her hands on my stomach.

"Yeah, well… I guess I must've been having a bad dream."

"Anyway, it felt great. It was a good way to wake up."

"Oh, my God. Stop," I laugh, covering my face in my hands.

"You know I like it rough," she teases, and I feel my stomach drop.

Is she flirting with me?  _What the fuck._

"Yeah, well. Now you have to hit me back," I taunt, hoping that she'll take the bait.

She cocks an eyebrow and smirks at me.

"Not fair. You're vulnerable, sleepy, and still in your pajamas."

"Wait…" I gasp. "How the fuck did I end up in your bed? What the heck hap—"

"You got pretty drunk, hun. I needed to keep an eye on you, so I brought you in here where I could check your breathing every hour or so."

"What?" I ask, dumbfounded by her comment.

Surely, I wasn't  _that_ drunk. But I guess I must've been, 'cause I remember  _nothing._ Except… Except the way her soft, warm hands cupped my face. I remember that…

"Nothing happened," she assures me. "I wouldn't take advantage of you, Emma."

"What? I know that! I didn't think you'd… I just thought… maybe I had… done something… stupid…"

She laughs and shakes her head, telling me, "No, babe. You were fine. Just a little shitfaced."

"A little?"

"A lottle."

I laugh at this. I hate how adorable she is. I hate her charm. Her passion. Her flirtatious mannerisms. And yet…

"Don't worry. You only threw up a few times."

"Oh, my God! I am so sorry!" I shout, completely horrified at myself. "Holy shit."

"Emma, it's fine. You're cute when you're drunk."

"Hardly. I just turn into—"

"A total charmer," she interjects with a grin.

"W-What do you mean?" I stutter.

I sound like an idiot. But hey… what's new?

"You wouldn't stop complimenting me. I mean, it was pretty much an 'I love you, bro' speech."

"Fuck. Seriously?"

I said  _I love you?!_

"Well, you didn't exactly say, 'I love you,' but—"

_Oh, thank God._

"—but you definitely told me that, 'You inspire me to be a better fighter. A better person, really. Plus, you're gorgeous.'"

"I  _said that?!"_  I gasp, once again horrified by my own actions.

"And more."

"What else did I say?"

"It doesn't matter, okay?" she laughs. "You were drunk and didn't mean any of it, so let's not get into things you said while completely blacked out."

"But I—"

"Emma. It's fine. Let's get breakfast."

I sigh, feeling more embarrassed than I've ever felt in my life.

This girl is gonna be the death of me.


	6. Our Great Depression

At the next Fight Club, Regina is all business, steel-eyed and serious. She relays the rules, then makes a new speech I haven't heard before, as the first two new guys start their fight.

"I see in Fight Club the strongest and smartest men and women who've ever lived. I see all this potential, and I see it squandered. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables – slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars, but we won't. We're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off."

I stare at her. She's got a way with words, and they seem to fuel the fight. Everyone cheers. They're loving it.

So am I, I guess.

She goes quiet, watching the fight, so I watch too, thinking about her words. Life is so fucking superficial.

* * *

I didn't fight tonight, so I feel empty, antsy, and full of angst. My insomnia comes back, full-force, with a vengeance. It takes me three hours on the couch before I fall asleep, and even then, I'm only out for about forty minutes. When I wake up, I wonder if she's sleeping. I wonder what she's thinking about, if she's awake. She's probably sleeping.

I lie there 'til the sun comes up and she comes out into the living room.

"You didn't sleep, did you?" she asks, looking concerned.

I sit up and shrug.

"Just a little."

"Sorry, hun. But hey… big plans today."

"What?"

"Big plans," she repeats, declining to explain.

She's grinning, so I know she won't tell me. It's a 'surprise.' I fucking hate surprises.

Still, I let her have her fun.

"I'm going out," I mutter, getting off the couch and making my way to the bathroom. As soon as I'm dressed, I bolt.

She's keeping things from me, and I hate it.

* * *

I come back, and her apartment is filled with people. The blondie I fought and took down a few nights ago is there, taking orders from her like some whipped little bitch. Pathetic. He's marching around, carrying stacks of paperwork in and out of the guest room. I stand back, totally shocked by the presence of what must be 12 or 13 people running around, doing similar tasks.

Again, she's making a speech, and it's captivating, but this time I'm more annoyed than anything else. What are they even doing?

"You are not your job. You are not how much money you have in the bank. You are not the car you drive. You are not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fucking khakis. You are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world."

I roll my eyes.  _Yeah, we are, Regina. We're the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world._ She's so full of herself.  _What. Are. They. Even. Doing?_

"Regina," I finally greet her, announcing my presence when she finally shuts up.

"Oh, hi!" she cries out, smiling at me.

"What's going on?"

"What do you mean?" she asks.

She's fucking with me.

"I said, 'What's going on?'"

"Project Mayhem."

"Project what now?" I ask dumbly, staring at her in disbelief.

"The first rule of Project Mayhem is 'You do not talk about Project Mayhem,'" Blondie cuts in, interrupting our conversation.

"Shut up!" I shout. "Shut.  _Up_."

His eyes go wide, and he backs off, returning to his stack of manila folders.

"Regina," I repeat, turning back to her. "Seriously. What's going on?"

"Just let it happen, Em," she says, still smiling innocently, like there aren't thirteen fucking morons in the apartment.

I shouldn't care. It's not my place. But still.

I realize quickly that I don't like to share.

"We need to talk," I assert, grabbing her arm and tugging her out of the apartment and into the hallway. "I thought this was our thing."

"We don't  _own_ Fight Club, Emma," she snaps. "This is bigger than us. Project Mayhem is bigger than us."

"Bullshit! You and I were a team," I shoot back, making my frustration clear.. "We started this  _together_. I wanna know certain things!"

"Fuck what you know. You need to forget about what you know. That's your problem. Forget about what you think you know about life, about friendship, and especially about you and me."

My stomach drops.  _What the fuck,_ I'm thinking.  _How did this come crashing down so hard, so fast? What is her fucking problem?_

She shakes her head, looking painfully disappointed, and I know she's done with this conversation. This is further confirmed when she turns away from me and walks back into the apartment. At least she leaves the door open and doesn't slam it behind her.

I go back inside a few minutes later, after swallowing the stomach bile that's risen to my throat.

She's still talking to the small crowd bustling around the apartment. They're too busy to stop –  _What the fuck are they even doing?! –_ but they're definitely listening. They're eating this shit up like it's gourmet prime rib.

"Listen up, maggots!" she shouts, looking serious again. "You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You're the same decaying organic matter as everything else. We are the all singing, all dancing crap of the world! We are all part of the same compost keep. Fuck damnation, man! Fuck redemption! We're God's unwanted children? So be it!"

Blondie walks by and grins at her, avoiding my gaze entirely. He's probably scared of me anyway. Apparently, I'm the psycho.  _Ugh._ I want to punch him again, but I know it won't end well, since we're not actually at Fight Club. Then again, Fight Club seems to have stemmed out of the basement of the pub and into the real world. Into 'Project Mayhem.' Whatever the fuck that is.

Part of me is dying to know. Part of me is terrified to find out what the fuck she's planning.  _She's_ kinda psycho, too. And not the kind of psycho that beats the shit out of someone after they tap out. She's in a whole other league.

"Self-improvement is masturbation," she tells her lackies. "Now self-destruction..."

I stare at her, but she's not looking at me.  _Self-destruction?_  I blink a few times out of confusion, then sigh and turn to leave. She doesn't try to stop me, or even notice that I'm on the way out, so I go without saying another word.

* * *

"Come here," Regina greets me, when I walk back into the apartment later that night.

Her lackies are gone. She's finally alone. Do I even want to talk to her? I don't know, but I can't tell her no, so I reluctantly make my way over to the table where she has a shit-ton of whatever-the-fuck spread out. The place is a fucking wreck.

"The clear layer is glycerin," she tells me, staying busy with her hands and without meeting my gaze. "You can mix glycerin back in when you make soap. Or You can skim the glycerin off. You can mix the glycerin with nitric acid to make nitroglycerin. You can mix nitroglycerin with sodium nitrate and sawdust to make dynamite. You can blow up bridges. You can mix nitroglycerin with more nitric acid and parafin and make gelatin explosives. You can blow up a building, easy. With enough soap, you can blow up the whole world."

I stare at her again. I've been doing a lot of that lately. What am I even feeling right now? Disbelief, I guess. I blink a few times and wait for her to continue.

"Human sacrifices were once made on the hills above a river. Bodies burned, water seeped into ashes to make lye. This is lye, a crucial ingredient. Once it's mixed with the melted fat of the bodies, a thick, white, soapy discharge crept into the river. Let me see your hand, please."

_Oh, fuck._

"Now," she repeats.

"What is this?" I ask, extending my hand.

"This is a chemical burn," she explains, as she pours it over the back of my hand. "It will hurt more than you've ever been burned, and you will have a scar." I scream, and she sees me shut my eyes, trying to meditate my way out of the pain, and shouts, "Stay with the pain. Don't block this out! This is your pain. This is your burning hand. It's right here!"

"I get it!" I scream.

I'm going to pass out.

"No," she says sternly. "What you're feeling is premature enlightenment." Again, I try to meditate, so her psycho ass continues, "This is the greatest moment of your life, man! And you're off somewhere missing it!"

"ALRIGHT!" I scream. "Okay!"

"You can run water over your hand and make it worse, or – LOOK AT ME – or you can use vinegar and neutralize the burn."

I finally stop screaming, and this time, my eyes are open. I'm looking right at her. She won't let me look away. She shakes my hand and makes it worse each time my gaze drops.

"First, you have to give up. First, you have to know, not fear, KNOW, that someday you're gonna die."

"You don't know how this feels!" I shout, my whole body vibrating with the pain of the burn searing into my flesh.

Regina lifts her hand and shows me her own scar. It matches what mine will look like, if she ever lets me neutralize the burn.

"It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything," she tells me with a smile, finally releasing her iron grip on my hand and dousing the burn with vinegar.

I let out a sigh of relief and collapse on the floor.

"This is your life," Regina says. "And it's ending one minute at a time."

Everything goes black.

* * *

I come to and realize that I'm strapped to a chair, facing the uncovered window of what was likely a seventy-five story corporate building.

Regina appears in the corner of my eye, and I spin myself around in the chair, trying to break free of the binds around my wrists. She sees that I'm awake and roughly jerks the fabric gag out of my dry mouth.

Blondie is standing beside her, and I feel my rage swell within me.

"What the  _fuck_  is going on?" I choke out, as soon as my mouth is uncovered.

"The downfall of corporate America, babe," she explains with her signature confident smile. "The three major credit bureau buildings are about to go down with a BANG."

"What are you talking about?" I gape.

"Project Mayhem," Blondie jumps in, beaming proudly.

"Shut the fuck up, kid," Regina scolds him, shooting a painfully brutal gaze his way.

I almost smile at this.

"Project Mayhem," Regina repeats, now looking into my eyes. "A reset button for the masses."

"What?" I ask, still clueless.

"Don't you get it?" she asks. "The end of corporate America. You take down the credit bureaus and everyone starts at square one. At ZERO. Total, absolutely chaos and anarchy. It's what we've always wanted, Em."

"That's bullshit! I never wanted this!" I protest, head reeling from shock.

Regina goes quiet for a moment, then shakes her head and pulls a Glock 19 from her waistband. She points it directly at my head, and I nearly scream, but swallow my fear. This girl is  _crazy._

"I'll bring us through this," Regina tells me, kneeling in front of my chair and allowing the barrel of the gun to rest against my inner thigh. "As always. I'll carry you – kicking and screaming – and in the end, you'll thank me." I say nothing, still in shock, so she adds, "Enjoy the show, princess. I did all of this for you."

She tucks the pistol back into the waistband of her trousers before turning my chair to make me face the window again, and just as I'm about to open my mouth to protest further, finally regaining some of my courage, I see bursts of red, orange, and yellow. That's it. Project Mayhem. I think I'm about to faint, by the time the explosions in the other buildings stop, but she turns my chair back around and looks into my eyes, kneeling in front of me again.

I can't speak.

She just smiles at me and leans in, pressing her lips to mine, before whispering in my ear, "I love you, Emma."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's my take on SwanQueen Fight Club. Thanks for reading, guys! I had fun writing this, so I hope at least some of you enjoyed!


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